


I Thought You Left (But You're Right Here)

by Scarlet_Nin



Series: You, brother mine, have your death privileges revoked! [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Ben Hargreeves Deserves Better, Ben Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Blood, Brotherly Love, Dark, Gen, Hurt Klaus Hargreeves, Immortal Klaus Hargreeves, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by that one Ben & Klaus secene you know the one, It didn't stick, Kid Fic, Klaus Has No Fear Of God, Klaus Is Going to Make It Better By Flipping Off The Little Girl Upstairs, No actual spoilers, Protective Klaus Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Season Two Spoilers/Inspired, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, They're like 14-15 years old, he gets one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Nin/pseuds/Scarlet_Nin
Summary: There were many things Klaus willingly ignored and chose to accept as inevitable. His chores around the house and the scolding and punishments that followed the small acts of lazy rebellion. Five’s absence, still so fresh in their minds. Vanya’s spiral into depression. The mausoleum.But there was one thing he couldn’t—wouldn’t accept.Ben’s death.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves
Series: You, brother mine, have your death privileges revoked! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869802
Comments: 71
Kudos: 587





	I Thought You Left (But You're Right Here)

**Author's Note:**

> Season Two left me sad. I decided to fix it. I might have made it worse before it gets better.

There were many things Klaus willingly ignored and chose to accept as inevitable. His chores around the house and the scolding and punishments that followed the small acts of lazy rebellion. Five’s absence, still so fresh in their minds. Vanya’s spiral into depression. The mausoleum.

But there was one thing he couldn’t—wouldn’t accept.

Ben’s death.

Death was unavoidable in the long run. Nobody knew that fact of life better than Klaus. While the news were tragic, they shouldn’t be hard to swallow. Not for him, anyway. So, what if Ben was dead? With enough concentration and a little less alcohol in his system, he could summon him again. For him, Ben was always within reach. No need to worry or grief like the others did.

There was no reason to, right?

_Wrong._ His father’s flinty reprimand echoes in his ears. Klaus flinches, raising his head to look around only to find himself standing alone in the snow.

No. Not alone. With Ben.

_“You alright?”_ his brother asks. _“We can go back inside if you’re cold.”_

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Klaus shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. A little fresh air should do wonders for my lungs.”

Ben doesn’t rise to the bait about his recent smoking habit, gaze falling to somewhere around Klaus’ chest.

_“You’re shaking, Klaus.”_

“No, I’m not,” he says immediately, just to contradict Ben, who couldn’t feel the cold anyway, so what did he know? Klaus always ran a little bit on the colder side, standing outside for a while would do no harm. He doesn’t feel cold—Ben must be mistaken.

That’s okay. Klaus won’t hold it against him. Must be hard to adjust to being a ghost, to not feeling anything at all. He couldn’t imagine not tasting the crispy cool air on his tongue, to breath it into his lungs and expel it in a puff of warm air.

Ben loved winter. Simply for the reason their other brothers and sisters would shift closer to them, unaffected by the cold—with Klaus’ temperature as cold as a corpse due to his exposure to the dead and The Horror being cold-blooded, seeking out warmth by huddling together.

The Horror wasn’t exactly cuddly to the rest of them, so they kept their distance. Klaus bets half his stash of weed that their siblings regret that now, nobody more than Ben.

_“You are,”_ Ben says quietly like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong and speaking any louder would get him into trouble. But with who? Dad can’t punish him anymore.

_“It’s okay. We don’t have to stay out here.”_

There’s something about the way his brother speaks, lack-luster but gently. The voice of a spooked animal afraid of a bear trap snapping shut, that gets Klaus’ eyes to burn fiercely. How he shuffles his boots in the snow, wearing black to his own funeral when none of them were allowed to dress up in anything other than their uniforms.

“Maybe, I want to stay out here!”

Klaus balls his trembling hands into fists. _With you,_ the words don’t pass his quivering lips.

Ben startles at the shout, shoulders hunching up to his ears and Klaus bites down hard enough on his chapped lips to taste blood.

He wonders if copper was the last thing his brother tasted before he died. Does the taste linger like a memory? Would the oatmeal at breakfast have been a better option?

_“That’s fine, too.”_ Ben tugs his jacket closer around himself like he can feel the chill creeping up his spine from the icy breeze. _“We can…we can stay a little longer, I guess.”_

No.

_“I just don’t want you getting sick.”_

Too late, Klaus feels ready to throw up. “It’s not. It’s not—this isn’t fine. This is…this is wrong.”

Horribly, utterly _wrong_. Kind little Ben wasn’t supposed to leave them alone—to turn into one of those haunting echoes that ghosts always become within time. Bleak and bitter, going berserk on him for being useless.

Number Six, for whom he’d translated bedtime stories into all kinds of different languages when he found him crying himself to sleep. Ben, who understood what it was like to be stuck with a miserable power, the weight sitting beside him while he drew all over the walls in a trance after coming back from another trip to the mausoleum, quiet and shaken and in desperate need of a comforting touch from a living person.

His brother with plans for a better future before an unfortunate mission tore it all away from him. Tore him away from Luther, who’d shed tears in front of Dad without storming off to hide them, from Allison and her shaky voice insisting Dad spoke nothing but lies, that they weren’t to blame. From Diego, that loved him so fiercely he’d stuttered his way through a small speech and Vanya, who wouldn’t stop crying, popping one pill after another.

Death took Ben away from them. But not from Klaus.

_“What do you mean?”_

“You shouldn’t be here, with me, all alone.”

Klaus blinks rapidly, hands itching for his flask. He pulls it out and takes a long swing from the cheap excuse of wine he sneaked away from the kitchen. This was his fault.

_“I’m not alone, though, aren’t I?”_ Ben frowns, taking a step closer. _“You’re here. You won’t…you called out to me. You can’t just leave me alone now that you don’t want to deal with me anymore!”_

He spews the wine back out, staining part of his shirt and sleeve, hastily wiping at his mouth with a hand. Ben fumbles out of the way in reflex to avoid getting wet.

“What? No! That’s not what I’m saying—listen.” Klaus runs a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to tug until he’s got no hair left to rip out. “This here?” He gestures between them, standing alone in front of the grave. “You don’t want this, trust me. You don’t want to be stuck with me, Ben, okay?” His voice cracks a little as the tears finally fall. “Nobody wants that.”

Desperation twists Ben’s face into the poster look of a lost little boy. _“But—"_

“I fuck everything up,” Klaus cuts in, choking on a watery laugh. “There’s a reason Daddy calls me a disappointment, y’know? Maybe if I wasn’t me, if I was more like Five or Luther, or hell, even Vanya, I could help you. I shouldn’t have forced you to come—ghosts aren’t happy being saddled with me for company.”

He sniffles, tears staining his cheeks as his legs give out and he sits down in the snow, a few feet away from where Ben’s body is buried, flask clattering to the ground. Ben stays silent, watching him choke around a sob and he doesn’t dare glance up to see the bitter anger growing on his brother’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he says breathlessly, “I thought…I dunno what I thought, probably nothing, this was selfish, but a little closure should be allowed, right? This is…this is the only thing my powers are good for and I wanted to see you.”

_“So, that’s it?”_ Ben’s breath hitches sharply. _“I’m stuck here now? What am I supposed to do? You’re the only one who can see me, the only one I can talk to and you’re sending me away to…to what exactly? Wander around aimlessly?”_

Tongue tied, Klaus wavers, lifting his gaze to look Ben in the eye. Willing to explain that hanging around the house would only hurt him, with the ghosts lingering around every corner, bloody and angry and decaying.

There was no reason to torment Ben in his death.

One glimpse at Ben’s face tears his lungs out straight out of his ribs, taking his breath with them.

Ben is crying. He made Ben cry. On the day of his funeral.

“No, no, no,” he whispers in panic. “Ben—no. We’ll…we’ll figure something out, yeah? The two of us, together. I’m not going to…to ignore you. Look—” Klaus scrambles for his flask, unscrewing the cap and turning it around to pour the leftover alcohol out into the snow. “—I’ll be sober for this, so that I can you see, just no more tears. Please.”

Ben’s face softens in relief, eyes flickering to the empty flask Klaus throws into a bush for good measure.

_“…okay.”_

“Okay,” he repeats soothingly, going for a smile. It stretches thin on his face, a little too wide and crooked to pass for genuine. “Now, what did you say about this light of yours?”

Ben perks up, brows furrowing as he comes to sit down next to him. He listens to Ben’s every word, though there’s not much to say. Some sort of light apparently showed up when Ben got conscious, what color it was, Ben had no idea. Just that someone told him to walk into the thing—which all things considered, could have been some sort of portal to hell, which he tactfully doesn’t bring up.

“Why didn’t you walk through?”

Ben’s face turns sheepish, eyes a little darker and glossier. _“You called for me. It would have been rude not to show up, right? Mom taught us better than that.”_

Taking in a deep breath to resist the urge to cry again—the only place he’d ever cried in where his bedroom, the bottom of the stairs and the mausoleum, he chews on his lips.

“That was stupid,” he chides, half-heartedly. “I mean, you might’ve ruined your chances at paradise for a while for what? My annoying voice? Benerino, you’re supposed to be the smart one now that Five is gone to the Bahamas.”

He nudges Ben in the side, his elbow going through his brother’s ribs. They both shudder at the sensation, curling away from each other. Silence falls over them as the soft layers of snow on Klaus’ shoulders and hair piles up.

A pause, then two.

_“I didn’t want to leave.”_

The admission is rushed out in what would be one breath, if Ben needed to breath at all, quick and short, a confession full of shame.

Ben pushes on before Klaus can reply, legs pulled up to his chest, eyes glazed over as he looks at his grave like he expects the Horror to burst forth.

_“I wanted—want to stay, here with you,”_ he mumbles. _“Sure, I…wasn’t doing great with you know and I didn’t like using them, but…you made it better. All of you. Losing Five hurt, you shouldn’t have to go through that again for my sake.”_

“Well, I’m here to tell you that’s okay.” Klaus leans back on his hands, watching the snow drift onto the grass. “Really, no one here blames you for leaving us, not that you had much of a choice in that one. Half of us are making plans already to get the hell out of here in a few years, now that you...” he falters, forcing his voice to remain steady. “…let’s just say we’d all preferred to ship you off towards college or something. Don’t sweat it, Benny-boy.”

_“I didn’t want to die.”_

The words shouldn’t come as a shock to him—nobody wants to die, not even the ghosts who’d willingly taken their lives—and yet, they take his breath away, sending a chill through his spine that deep-fries his mind.

He’s good with words, not necessarily smart with them like Five was, but he can keep on chattering until he gets a smile out of one of his siblings—even Vanya if he tries hard enough and for all that he’s noisy and loud and annoying, everything is better than silence around his siblings, cold and dreary as they sink into the sea of their thoughts. Sometimes, he’s afraid they’ll drown, let these thoughts pull them in like his ghosts do with their wailing and he gets louder, cracks another joke at his own expenses, reveals something embarrassing, pushes buttons left and right, sings pop-songs in off-key pitches, just to get a reaction.

Talking is his only talent, whenever that ends up with a smile or a bloody nose.

For once in his life, Klaus has no idea what to say—what could make this better. This isn’t something he can brush off with a joke without sounding like an insensitive asshole. He’s an asshole, alright, but the thought of hurting Ben by saying the wrong thing now, of playing his brother off when he wants to hold onto him—it’s scary. Fucking terrifying.

Chasing the ghosts away is his biggest dream, but driving Ben away is his worst nightmare.

Tongue-tied, all that manages to make it past Klaus’ lips is a small, tired sounding, “I know.”

Ben doesn’t speak for a long while after that. No acknowledging hum to having heard him—he must have, ghosts always hear what he has to say, they just never listen to him—or a roll of his eyes. When Klaus gets the courage to risk a peek, he catches a glimpse of him, staring off into the distance with his legs pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them.

Fumbling for the lighter in his inner jacket, Klaus pulls out a cigarette out and lights it up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the ground. He takes a deep drag, watching Ben attentively.

“This light of yours,” he begins after breathing out rings of smoke. “There weren’t tentacles coming out of that thing by any chance, were they?”

Ben turns to look at him, not bating an eye at the skillful rings he makes for show, face twisted into an incredulous scowl. “The hell, Klaus?”

“Hey, hey, down boy.” Klaus flicks ash away, holding up his hands, cigarette pinched in between his fingers. “Don’t rip my head off just yet, kay? It was a reasonable question. So, that light isn’t connected to—” He gestures to Ben’s stomach, seeing his brother wince. “—them. Not a portal to some interdimensional torture chamber, then.”

Ben tugs the ends of his jacket over his hands. Klaus eyes narrow at the gesture—among the relatively long list of languages he’s learnt to be fluent in, beating Allison’s seven, body language was included and Ben’s got anxiety written all over.

“That’s a good thing, by the way,” he says in case Ben didn’t notice. “One less thing to worry about. Check that off the list. Don’t worry, I’ve got tons of other theories stewing around inside my head, so—"

_“I can’t feel them,”_ Ben cuts in, brows furrowed.

Klaus blinks in surprise. “Congratulations?”

Ben gives him an unimpressed look, half torn between outrage and exasperation. The universal sign of Klaus taking it a step too far.

To be fair, he’s kinda out of his depth here.

“I mean, that’s a good thing, right?” He takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing out the smoke in Ben’s face to distract him. “Not like we’ll have to worry about stomach cramps and bugs anymore. Or getting thrown across the room.”

Ben scoffs, though there’s a small smile on his lips.

_“As if you were ever scared off them.”_

“Why would I be?” Klaus grins around his cigarette. “They’re part of you. I’m more of a ride or die kinda guy. There’s no room for discrimination when you’ve seen death with your own eyes.”

_“You told Luther off for liking pancakes over waffles.”_

“Please, Luther’s got no taste,” Klaus sniffs, “At all. He thinks the sun shines out of Dad’s ass.”

The smile falls off Ben’s face.

Right. No mentioning Dad. The last thing he needs is for Ben to cry again.

“You were saying?”

_“There was never a day I didn’t feel them moving underneath my skin.”_ Thankfully, Ben takes to the topic change. _“But now…there’s, it’s not nothing, just an odd sort of…pressure in my stomach. I think…they’re still here, somehow, but they’re not moving.”_

“They’re dead.”

The mental image of his brother carrying around a dead set of tentacles in his stomach makes him wish he’d smoke something harder than cigarettes right now.

“You’re not supposed to feel anything when you’re dead. That’s ghosts 101. No body, no physical sensations. Some call it a blessing, others bitch about it.”

_“But…what about pregnant women? Doesn’t the baby turn into a ghost too when they both die?”_

“Uh…” Klaus flounders for an answer. He’s never outright asked how that one worked. “…your tentacle buddies ain’t a baby. My experience with non-human ghosts are limited. Not like there’s a good way to communicate with them anyway. Pretty sure none of them speak, if they’re like yours.”

Ben scrunches up his face, then nods. _“Guess so.”_

“Good to know we agree on that.” Klaus gives him a thumbs up. “Moving on and back to the light—” He snorts, hearing Ben groan quietly next to him. “—sorry, that wasn’t on purpose even if it was hilarious, shut up, you know it was, there must be a place ghosts go back to.”

But where? That was the biggest question.

Was there a heaven and hell? Some big old dude with a beard and lighting bolts sitting on a throne that would press the button on his arm rest to make the golden bar gates open to heaven like some CEO would report to their secretary they were ready to receive visitors? A devil with pitchforks ruling a place full of hell-flames, laughing over misery?

What’s good and bad anyway? Who decided that? Free will was there for a reason, right, so what right did anyone have to separate people just living their lives however shitty they wanted to?

Ben deserved nothing short of paradise. Murder was still murder, but did the motive count?

Klaus doesn’t know.

“There are plenty of ghosts I stuck it to, y’know to find their peace or to move on to the other side,” he tells Ben. “Hoping they’d leave me be, thought they never did. Stubborn bastards.”

Getting anything out of them aside from the same old broken records of thirst for revenge and closure and rage, was like pulling out teeth. None of them ever really spoke about a light, except if they meant the lights of a car that ran them over.

“There has to be a place after death,” he mumbles more to himself than to Ben. “Otherwise, there’d be waaaay more ghosts hanging around, stinking up the place with rotten flesh.”

Taking a drag of his rapidly shortening cigarette—they’d been sitting here for a while then—he starts to tap his fingers on his knee, glaring at thin air.

Ben saw a light after death—which didn’t make much sense.

( _“I wanted—want to stay.”_ )

The ghosts that stuck around for people, not out of anger for their murder, rather out of obligation or love, never mentioned a light. Or at least, they didn’t leave despite bemoaning their situations whenever he was within earshot. Nor did they disappear after saying their final good-byes to their loved ones.

Klaus had tried that already. The lady who’d dyed of a heart failure down the street was living proof.

Ben obviously wanted to go if he had to stay like this—dead, his mind spat at him like the ghosts—so he couldn’t be stuck. His murder was taken care off, also dead, though he didn’t linger, there went another possible reason for his brother’s stay.

_“So, I’m stuck here?”_

“Ben,” he whines, holding up a hand. “I’m thinking. Don’t interrupt.”

He hears his brother huffs, giving him a contemplative glance before turning to look down at his knees with a quiet _“Well, that’s a first.”_

Klaus shushes him, waving his hand.

“It’s not…it’s not me, is it?” he asks after another minute of silence, jerking Ben out of his own thoughts.

_“What?”_

“It’s not…my powers aren’t keeping you from leaving, are they?”

Ben wavers and dread begins to fester in Klaus’ gut.

Fuck.

It was him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes and he sees Ben’s face twist into a horrified grimace at the sight.

_“No!”_

The sheer loudness of Ben’s yell—Ben doesn’t shout, at anybody, no matter the reason—gets him to drop his cigarette in the snow.

“Christ, don’t do that!” Klaus slaps a hand over his pounding heart, chest heaving at the scare.

Ben has the decency to look sheepish. _“It’s not you. You’re not the reason I’m stuck.”_

“Stop saying that.” Klaus perks up, eyes wide. “Wait, I’m not?”

_“No.”_

“Are you sure? One-hundred percent certain? Two-hundred percent? Because my powers are shitty enough, I’d find that believable. You don’t need to lie to me to make me feel better if we’re gonna work on making you un-stuck, y’know—"

_“It’s not you,”_ Ben says frustratedly. _“It’s me.”_

Klaus’ mouth drops open. He eyes the way Ben adverts his gaze, refusing to look up and it takes a moment for the dots to connect in his mind.

“You’re scared.”

Ben’s lips flatten into a line. _“Like you wouldn’t be!”_

Halfway through reaching out to lay a hand on Ben’s shoulder, he stops, fingers curling into a fist. Mind racing, he tries to think of something reassuring to say, something to make Ben’s shoulder uncurl a little bit, but Ben beats him to speaking, voice small like he’s on the verge of tears.

_“You said it yourself, we don’t know where that light leads me to.”_

Ben chews on the inside of his cheek, lips pursing in the way he’d look before he needs to release the Horror on a mission.

_“What if it’s hell? I’ve…I’ve killed a lot of people, Klaus. There’s no guarantee I’ll end up somewhere near heaven.”_

The thought of sending Ben off to…to another hellhole has bile pushing up his throat.

“Who says there’s there must be two places? Why must there be sides? Why can’t there be only one?”

The look Ben throws him rips his spine straight out of his back, leaving him hollow and defenseless.

_“Exactly. We don’t know,”_ Ben says quietly. _“I’m not sure I want to find out.”_

Shit.

This was…this was his fault. He’d planted those thoughts in Ben’s head, the seed of doubt.

He dug his own grave deeper every time he opened his stupid mouth. Why couldn’t he just have sent Ben off with a wave and a smile? Why couldn’t he let it go? Why did he use his powers when all he’s done lately was shun them, refuse to use them at every turn?

Ben shouldn’t pay the price.

Ben should be here, breathing and living his life. Not dead and miserable, stuck as a ghost and afraid of what the afterlife has to offer.

“What…if you’re not alone?”

Ben’s head snaps up. _“What?”_

This will bite him in the ass, he knows, but strangely enough, the way Ben’s eyes glimmer with hope give him a boost of confidence. Though that might just have been the wine talking.

“If there would be someone there to hold your hand, go with you into the light,” Klaus explains. “Would you go then?”

Ben frowns, light dimming in his eyes to regard him with wariness. _“Who?”_

Putting on his best smile, Klaus points to himself. “Moi, who else?”

_“No. No, no, what the hell?”_ Ben’s voice turns hard, cold. _“You can’t—do you even know what you’re offering?”_

_No,_ his mind helpfully supplies.

What his mouth says is, “Of course! My offer is to off myself, so that you, Benerino, doesn’t have to go through the big bad light all by yourself. That’s what brothers are for, no?”

Ben stares at him like he’s speaking a foreign language. _“No!”_

“C’mon, hear me out.”

Klaus leans forward when Ben backs away, crawling on all fours and the urgency in the way his brother tries to put distance between them like a deer learning to walk on ice, all shaky movements, tripping over himself, makes something in his chest burn.

“Stop, just listen to me for a minute. Gimme a second to explain before you shut me down.”

Ben shakes his head. He looks a little close to hyperventilating, more so out of habit to breath, not out of need to breath. Eyes darting around for help, finding none.

“Ben,” Klaus says, in a very small voice. “Please.”

His brother stops, sucking in a noisy rush of air. He exhales sharply, looking not necessarily calmer but less skittish. Less like he wants to run away and never come back.

_“Okay.”_

It’s not okay, at least not for Ben judging from his thin-stretched voice and pastry white face, but his brother nods, always the brave one and twists his sleeve ends in his hands, visibly calmer as he repeats himself, cutting their old mantra of _“We’re okay”_ whenever they got into trouble short.

_“Okay.”_

“Thanks.”

Klaus pulls out another cigarette, needing something to settle his nerves. Ben waits him out, not daring to take his eyes off, watching him silently.

“Right. So, remember my special training?”

Ben frowns a little and nods.

“Dad actually said something interesting to me once. Basically, what he said was if I could manage to get my head outta my ass, my powers could be useful. Like _Allison_ level useful, because he looked at me like he had some expectation of greatness I wasn’t meeting that I could. Can you believe that?”

Right before he shut the door of the mausoleum in Klaus’ face. But he wasn’t thinking about that now, concentrate on Ben and the words and on nothing else.

Klaus forces out a smokey laugh, airy and fake. “So…whacky thought…what if he was right? That I have this…this untapped potential in me that I don’t know about?”

_“And what?”_

Klaus blinks. “What, what?”

_“You’re about to what, kill—become a ghost on a hunch?”_

Ben’s eyebrows are up on his forehead and for a ghost, he’s creating a new shade of white. Corpse pale, yet somehow, he’s whiter than the snow surrounding them.

_“No. You don’t even know what Dad meant. I’m not letting you do this to yourself, Klaus.”_

“Tough luck,” he snarls, bristling at the sheer audacity of his brother. “This isn’t your decision to make, Ben.”

Ben gapes at him, startled by the mood swing, but he should have known by now that if there’s one thing Klaus hated, it was for someone else do decide what’s best for him.

Look at their Dad, he didn’t know shit about what’s best for any of them. He’s the reason Ben was dead, not Luther. If that prick had a little more heart, a bit more remorse, maybe Klaus wouldn’t have to fix this mess.

And that’s all the Bastard ever wanted from him, wasn’t it? A little effort, as he calls it, traumatizing would fit the bill better. Of course, Ben wouldn’t understand—couldn’t because if he was honest Klaus barely understands what he’s set and about to do himself.

“I’m not letting you do this alone.” He rises to his feet, Ben following him, hovering like he can physical restraint him from doing anything without a body. “We’re a team, remember? Not like we didn’t all know the next funeral will be mine, I was close to placing a bet before you showed up anyway, since it’s easy money won and all.”

Ben doesn’t point out that if he won his bet, he wouldn’t be able to collect his money. He doesn’t stomp his foot and scream at him for behaving like a prick. Ben doesn’t cuss him out.

He disappears and that’s worse.

For a moment, panic crawls up his throat, making him choke on his smoke. His hands flare up blue a second later and the glimpse of a black jacket catches his eyes before he lets the glow fade from his hands with a sigh.

Good. Ben’s still here. Angry and hurt, probably went off to find one of their other siblings.

Groaning into his hand, Klaus flinches at the call of his name.

It sounds like Diego, coming to get him after Mom probably told him to get him out of the snow lest he grew sick. Cursing under his breath, he crouches to put his cigarette out, before flicking it into a bush.

Diego comes running, umbrella in his hand and the tattoo on Klaus’ arm burns at the sight.

“You coming in or what?”

Normally, he’d make a joke about his brother coming after him, looking like a bristling cat, wiping at his eyes to hide his tears. But Diego’s eyes stray to the grave stone where the statue will be in a few days and his face crumbles, tears rolling down his cheeks and the joke turns to dust in his mouth.

Tasteless.

“Can’t stay out here without you dragging me inside, can I?”

Diego’s gaze turns back on him, stern frown in place. “Mom’s worried.”

“Then we better go inside, mommy’s boy!” Klaus darts around him, setting off into a sprint. He hears Diego cry out behind him, some gibberish nonsense and doesn’t look back.

He sprints straight up the stairs, ignoring Mom’s questions and to his room. Tearing off his jacket, he pulls out the thickest book in his shelf and makes his way to his desk, jacket thrown carelessly over the back of his chair.

Ghosts, the book cover reads.

Funny how much a book can weight.

* * *

Turns out, books are useless.

Just like the library. The one-time Klaus willingly goes and reads until the words are blurring together and he finds nothing. Except a lot of bullshit.

How was he supposed to know what was true and what wasn’t? He was a man on a mission here, to get anything that could help him how resurrection or coming back from wherever ghosts fucked off to worked.

So far, all he’s found in these books was a headache.

He’s not giving up, not on Ben. Doing this half-assed wouldn’t do. Maybe Five had a point in putting in all that effort before he left since he obviously wasn’t dead. The problem with his powers were never summoning ghosts—it was about getting them to leave.

Like now.

“There’s gotta be a reason they can hang around,” he groans, burying his head into his arms. “If there’s a place for them they can go to, they wouldn’t hang around me. Not for long, anyway.”

He can’t believe he’s wasted the day Dad gave them off on books. He could’ve gotten high in his room until he was high enough to reach the ceiling.

Most of the ghosts he met, or the ones comprehendible and partly sane were convinced he could make them what? Come back to life? Maybe, they had a point. What if…if he could do that? Or make them visible? He saw the dead, but how far did his control over them really go? Seeing some sort of light shouldn’t be hard, though that only seemed to work if you were dead. Death shouldn’t be any different from the dead—there had to be some sort of connection.

Dad seemed awfully invested in him for someone who wouldn’t give Luther any extra training because he had a basic power that didn’t need specific training.

With him, it was all quid pro quo.

_“You can’t be serious.”_

Ben appears in the chair opposite to him, startling him almost bad enough he falls backwards out of his chair. He muffles his shriek, years of experience with the ghosts coming in handy at no longer screeching like a banshee whenever on of the meaner ghosts decided to jump scare him for a reaction.

Ben looks at the various books on the table, piled up high into towers, not with longing, but a sort of resigned fear that hurts to look at.

So, Klaus doesn’t.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack and save me the trouble if you keep on doing this.”

_“Nobody’s forcing you to do this. I’m not forcing you to do this, okay?”_

“I’m doing this for you.” Klaus finally looks up, mindlessly flapping the pages. When Ben opens his mouth to protest, he speaks over him. “And for me, I guess.”

Ben pauses. _“For you?”_

His voice goes quieter when he’s upset, Klaus knows, the ticking noise of a bomb seconds before blowing up.

“Yeah,” he says, trying for nonchalant and ending up sounding tired. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, brother mine.”

_“Klaus,”_ Ben’s tune is cautious, strained as he foregoes the chair to sit down next to him. _“Do you…you know what you’re saying to me, right?”_

It’s Ben’s way of giving him an out, not patronizing him for being stupid. Ben looks stricken, like he knows the answer and wishes he doesn’t, hand hovering over his shoulder in fear of sticking it through.

Throat closing up, he nods, firm and unyielding for once.

He looks at Ben, sees a brother, someone who loves him, someone who came for him simply because he called. When was the last time any of his siblings came to him? When he screamed himself hoarse from the nightmares?

( _“I didn’t want to die.”_ )

Ben deserved better, at least someone by his side. Klaus could give them that, would have words for whoever was in charge of running the place, if there was someone to complain to. For the shit cards life dealt them with, for their powers.

Klaus couldn’t bring Ben back to life, but he sure as hell could keep him company.

There wasn’t much waiting for him in life. The few years he’ll spend running away from himself wouldn’t be a great loss. He doubts Dad would miss him at all.

Taking a deep breath, he opens his mouth and says, “Wanna hear about my special training?”

Ben takes a moment to nod and like a start signal given, the words rush out of his mouth in hushed whispers of shame, for too many things he can’t bring himself to name and his voice doesn’t waver, as numb as he is on the car rides to training, yet he can’t stop the tears from falling as he retells the nights in sketchy details like they happened to someone else.

He tells his brother about the mausoleum, dark and dreary, about the night lights he keeps on during the night to chase away the memories of decaying skin peeling off screaming faces. About the perfume he steals from Allison to keep away the smell of rotten flesh.

He tells Ben about rocking back and forth in the darkness, hungry and tired and scared out of his mind as the ghosts begin to close in on him, thinking about not making it back out.

About wondering if swallowing a whole bottle of pills before bed, of not coming up to be greeted by the wailing ghosts during his bath would be so bad whenever he catches wind of training in their Father’s voice.

By the end of his little rant, Ben sits, quiet and wide-eyed next to him.

The arms coming to pull him into a hug go straight through him, but Klaus laughs until he cries, reaches out to lay his hand over Ben’s, images their fingers don’t slip through each other’s and smiles.

When he says he already pick-pocket a knife from Diego, Ben doesn’t tell him off.

Klaus counts it as a victory. It’s the closet he’ll ever come to approval.

* * *

The hardest part isn’t sneaking out through the house on his bare-feet at mid-night or having second-thoughts about pulling through for Ben.

It’s doing it clean, without liquid courage to give him the push he needs.

He’s spent dinner thinking about his options. He’s seen plenty of ghosts, so he had a lot of variety to choose from despite his limitation. Klaus is a coward—a child who’s afraid of the dark and the thought of hurting until his last breath makes his stomach twist into knots, made him fumble his way through dinner, dropping his fork twice and hearing Allison ask him quietly if he’s okay while sneaking his carrots away knowing he hates them.

He couldn’t stop himself from hugging them all, one last time. Even Vanya, who looked far too surprised for his tastes and clung to him until Mom reminded them to get ready for bed.

As much as he’d like to just go through with what he’s set on doing, he can grudgingly admit rushing in blindly would be a mistake.

He’s got one chance—there’s no way to try again afterwards, so he can’t fuck it up.

Which means overdosing is out of question. Drowning in the bath peacefully also didn’t make the cut, because his time is limited—it’s now or never, he knows himself too well, if he postpones too long, he’ll reconsider and break his promise to Ben altogether—and he has to make sure he stays dead. His siblings are a noisy bunch and with Allison’s ever-changing beauty routines there’s no way to be certain one of them doesn’t come in at the wrong time and successfully brings him back to life via CPR.

All he needs to do is die without regrets. Preferably as painless as possible. Getting stuck as a ghost, but without seeing the light Ben spoke off would be his biggest failure yet.

That means using the knife he snatched from Diego.

Not the best option, though beggars can’t be chosen, he guesses. Looking at some of the ghosts, he should consider himself lucky.

Him and lucky. Ha. Klaus never thought they’d be associated with each other, let alone be used in the same sentence.

_“You could run away,”_ Ben says, proposing the idea for the fourth time since Klaus started to sneak downstairs and out towards the yard. _“Go and travel the world. We could do that together. The light isn’t really…going anywhere, right? There’s no rush. This can wait until you’re a bit older—"_

“How optimistic of you to think I’m gonna make it until eighteen.”

Klaus tightens his grip on the knife, pacing up and down in front of Ben’s grave, feet crunching in the snow and gravel. Ben’s little tactic wouldn’t work, though he can’t fault him for trying to rid himself of the guilt.

“Face it, Dad’s gonna drag me back kicking and screaming by the hair if I were to run off. We can’t all be lucky like Five. What do you think he’s going to do to me when he finds me?”

When, not if. Because Dad _would_ find him even if he had to tear apart the city and Klaus knows where he’ll end up. Ben knows it, too.

He can’t go back into the mausoleum. There are only so many times his mind can bend for the hours he’s stuck in the dark, hyperventilating himself into one panic attack and the next, before it splinters and breaks apart at the seams.

Toes curling in the snow, he sits down with his back to the tombstone.

Dad can’t drag him back from the dead, otherwise Ben wouldn’t be shivering a few feet away from him, eyes impossibly sad.

Forcing a smile onto his face, he rolls up his sleeves, pretending he’s shaking from the cold winter air. The pajama he’s wearing doesn’t keep him warm on most days. Out in the freezing night it offers little to no resistance against the gusts of wind tussling his hair, drying the sweat on his skin.

Diego’s blade is heavy in his hand. Freaky. His brother threw them like they were weightless, soaring through the air with a flick of his wrist, always hitting their mark.

The blade resting against his wrist is icy.

“Turn around.”

Ben balks, rocking back on his heels. _“What? No.”_

“Why not?” Klaus refuses to let his voice break. “Afraid you’ll miss the show? It’s not going to be pretty—it’ll be a mess to clean up, trust me, you don’t want to watch.”

Bad enough for whoever is going to find him in the morning. Swallowing the guilt, he feels back down like bile, he sets his jaw stubbornly, daring Ben to disagree with him. Seeing his brother not backing down, he huffs annoyedly, nerves on edge.

They had a schedule to keep.

It had to be now, _it had to be tonight_.

“Please?” he asks, palm sweaty around the handle of the knife. “Take it as my last wish…but…but don’t watch.”

_“I’m not going to leave you alone,”_ Ben warns, turning around at last. His shoulders are trembling, fists clenched at his sides, swaying in the snowy breeze.

Letting out a shaky sigh, Klaus turns back to his wrist, the pulse fluttering underneath his skin like the heartbeat of a frightened rabbit. The sight of Ben’s back is an odd comfort, soothing the panic threatening to overwhelm him, but there’s a sinking pit of disappointment pooling in his stomach at how easily his brother was ready to turn a blind eye.

Ben must be lonely, he concludes. Lonely and afraid of the numbness Klaus wished he could sink into.

The realization that he can should be enthralling. No more days stuck in the dark with his demons—Dad would be super pissed at having wasted his time. He’d rather go into some light than be stuck in the dark for a minute longer and wasn’t that what their Father wanted?

“May the darkness within you find peace in the light.”

That’s what he’s written on Ben’s tombstone.

He wonders, what dear old Dad will put on his own. Nothing, probably. If he even gets a grave around the house. Maybe he’d get thrown in the mausoleum one last time, just to spite him.

Shaking his head to clear off these thoughts, he adjusts the knife. Two measly cuts. Precise. Contrary to what Pogo and his brothers and sisters believed, he did pay attention to the medical lessons Mom taught them. Wouldn’t want to be the reason one of his siblings turned into a ghost.

He should have tried harder.

The single lesson outside of combat that would come in handy. Ten minutes tops and he’ll get to wrap his arms around Ben in a hug. His brother certainly looks like he needs one.

“Remember,” he croaks out, not glancing up, stare fixed onto his hands. “No peeking!”

The first line is ragged, his arm flinching away. Beads of blood bubble to the surface and his hand wavers, the echoes of the ghosts ringing in his ears, pleas for help, hateful scathing slurs thrown his way— _“Do it, do it, do it.”_ —resonating with the jumps of his pulse.

Instinct has him jerk the knife away, the sting burning upwards his arm. Blood doesn’t unsettle him as much as it should, years of seeing it drip all over the place in the house made it normal to see on anyone else than himself and his siblings.

Seeing it now, running down his arm, dripping into the snow sets his heartbeat off. Furiously fast like it wants to break out of his ribcage.

His hand fumbles, stuck between dropping Diego’s knife to put pressure on the wound and to cling to the weapon.

His resolution wavers. Ben would understand—he had realistic expectation of how much of a scaredy-cat Klaus is. Maybe, if he’s lucky and went back inside to get to his sewing kit he stole from Mom, he could clean himself up and hide under his blankets and they could forget this ever happened.

Maybe if he took the bottle of wine left in the fridge and drank enough, he wouldn’t keep on seeing Ben’s disappointed face either—

_“Klaus?”_

The sound of Ben’s worried voice jostles him out of his stupor. Sucking in a harsh breath, he hadn’t realized he’d stopped, he tears his eyes away from the sluggishly bleeding cut on his arm.

_Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!_

His brother’s head turns, though his feet remain firm in their place and fear rips a strangled noise out of his throat.

“Don’t look!” he says shrilly, seeing Ben jump. “Don’t–don’t look at me. Everything’s fine. Just peachy, okay? Keep your eyes up front.”

_“But…”_

“No!” He denies vehemently, glaring at the back of Ben’s head. “We’re doing this my way, remember? Man, you’re the world’s shittiest lookout.”

_“You don’t sound fine,”_ Ben mumbles more to himself than to Klaus. _“We can go and get Mom if you—"_

Tears well up in his eyes, hot on his cheeks as they slide down towards his jaw.

“No.” Sniffling, he wipes at his eyes, breathing in sharply through his nose. “Gimme a moment.”

His arm burns. The harsher the cold wind gets, the more it stings. He doesn’t look down at his arm, feeling the blood soak through the fabric of his pants.

_“Does it hurt?”_

The question hits him like a slap to the face.

_Does it hurt?_

Ben had no business asking him that—of course it hurt! Diego’s knives are sharp not painless. Dying wasn’t painless, not when done like this.

Ben should know. Maybe, he does.

Shame heats his frigid skin like tiny thousand ants crawling along his bones.

“Not really.”

He lies straight through his teeth. Lying comes easy and there’s no point in speaking about the obvious. Gaze falling back to his unblemished wrist, he takes the knife into his other hand, lining the tip of the blade up.

_Focus, Number Four._

The second cut is deeper, smoother than the first. Blood spurts out as his pulse sky-rocks and he flings the knife towards the bushes in the hopes they won’t find it in the morning. Diego would be crushed.

“Should’ve written a note,” he mumbles, though it’s too late for that now.

He leans his head back against the stone to stare up at the sky, arms hanging limply by his sides.

“Weird request, but can you tell me a story, Ben? Mom never has the time to read us those anymore.”

The stars are pretty. Nobody pointed that out. They should. Tiny lights brightening up the dark night, the moon glowing in the distance. He bets there are no ghosts up there. A place without ghosts sounds like a dream, unreachable like the moon.

A campfire under the moon. They should have done that while Five was still with them. Bringing the idea up to Dad under the disguise of a survival in the wood kind of training exercise. He’d tell them ghost stories, watching Five roast marshmallows with Vanya—perhaps, they’d make their disgusting sandwiches for everyone. Luther and Diego would have fought over the tents while Allison berated them with that look in her eyes that screamed “boys will be boys” before taking control. Ben could quote the few books on star constellations he’s caught him reading once and they’d star gaze the night away.

_“What do you want to hear?”_

That would have been lovely. “Surprise me.”

Ben’s voice washes over him, drowning out his rising heartbeat hammering away. His skin cools down until he’s shivering, eyes fluttering weakly. The pungent, sweet, coppery smell in his nose turns his stomach upside down and he resists the urge to retch with a moan.

His head begins to drop, dark spots appearing in his vision, listening to Ben butcher his way through tears and a story Klaus stopped listening to the moment he opened his mouth.

A note. He should’ve left a note, he thinks dazedly when a sob breaks out of Ben’s throat. Ugly and wet. The others won’t know why, would chalk it up to breaking under pressure and grief, curse him for running away.

Seven down to four.

Funny how he won’t be part of that.

* * *

Klaus awakens with a gasp to the sight of a forest during the midst of autumn bordering on winter. The earth beneath his hands is wet and rough, sticks and leaves clinging to his palms as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. The sky over his head is mismatched—a stark white to black stars and a moon. Fog layers the trees and bushes in a veil of smoke, making him strain his eyes to see farther than a few yards. Flowers swaying in the breeze, hanging their grey heads depressingly.

“Ben?”

He’s scrambles to stand, brushing dirt from his pajamas. They pop out like the summer sky, their pastel blue shade glaringly bright in the monochrome wood he’s found himself in.

“Beeeen?” He calls out, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Anyone there?”

His voice echoes along the trees, fading into silence. There’s no answer to his call and he scratches at the back of his head, mind reeling on what could’ve gone wrong.

Was he dreaming? People don’t dream on the verge of death, do they? Did he somehow walk through the light on accident?

Breaking out into a run, he races through the forest on his bare feet, careful not to trip over wayward roots. His breaths come out in steaming clouds of air while he races through thin layers of snow.

Someone had to be here, wherever here was. He could feel it. Another presence lurking just out of sight.

Foot catching on a root, he yelps when the world tilts on its axes and the ground rushes to meet him. Catching himself on his hands, skidding forward, he splutters, wheezing for breath as he sits on his knees.

“Oh shit.”

Turning his palms over to look for scrapes and finding none, he climbs to his feet, breath ragged. Neither do his feet hurt despite stepping on stones and twigs for the past five minutes. Glancing down to check, he balks.

What the hell?

What. The. Hell.

He stumbles backwards, back hitting a tree he uses to press himself upwards and standing on albeit shaky knees.

The thin layer of snow he’s run on is stained with bright red footsteps leading up straight to where he’s standing. Blood, his mind helpfully supplies. Lifting one foot to double check he isn’t bleeding without having noticed, he finds his soles unmarred.

No wound. Absolutely nothing. Nichts. Nada. Niete. Not even a teeny tiny scratch.

Weird. Weirder than some of the shit he’s seen. Coming from him, that means a lot. He’s seen a guy attempt to strangle someone with their own intensities before.

A twig snaps behind him, catching his attention.

“Who’s there?”

Shit. He wants Ben. Not some sort of axe serial killer. This reminds him of all the horror movies dear old Reggie forced him to watch when he was too young for the mausoleum—exposure therapy at home. Allison complained about him having the only television in the house quite often.

He braces himself to start running again.

Except it’s not a muscle man in a flannel shirt stepping out behind a tree, but a girl in a summer dress close to his age.

He lets out a sigh of relief, melting against the tree. “You scared the shit outta me.”

The girl merely blinks.

Right. He’s being rude. He clears his throat, giving a little wave.

“Fancy meeting you here—” Wherever they are. “—but have you seen another boy running past by chance? He’s about this tall—” Klaus holds his hand up to his chin. “—a bit on the shorter side, I know and he’s got a leather jacket and hoodie on. Hair as black as yours, though not nearly as long.”

The girl’s face scrunches up. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

That’s not an answer. Though, seeing as he’s currently trespassing or whatever, he’ll let the bluntness slide.

“Sorry.” He’s not. “But have you seen him? I’m looking for my brother.”

“Go back,” she snaps, face twisting into a glower out of nowhere. “Coming here on accident is excusable, but on purpose? No. Just no. What were you thinking?”

“What?” He straightens up. “Listen, I’ve got no idea where I am or who you are, but all I wanna know is if you’ve got a clue where my brother is. Did you see him or not?”

“Your brother isn’t here, Klaus,” She glares. “And that’s your fault.”

Klaus’ eyes widen, mouth dropping open. “How do you know my name?”

“What a dumb question.” She narrows her eyes. “I know everything, of course, I’d know your name. You’re nothing but trouble for me, showing up here on your own accord years ahead of time.”

“Years ahead of time—wait, hold on.”

He holds up a hand, mind working furiously to connect the dots. Dark and bottomless eyes. Paper-white glowing skin. An air so cold he can feel the ice crunching between his teeth with every breath he takes in.

“Don’t tell me…so, I did step through the light!”

Okay. Don’t panic. No biggie. He can call out to Ben from here, right? So, what if he forewent the journey, all that counted was to end up at the final destination. He’ll greet Ben with a hug to make it up to him.

“Hey—” The girl snaps her fingers, forcing him out of his thoughts. “—didn’t you hear what I said? Go back. You can’t be here yet. Don’t they have calendars down there?”

“Go back…as a ghost?”

She rolls her eyes. “No.”

He’s lost.

“You want me to leave to …to come back to life-life, not as a ghost, because my time hasn’t come yet?”

He waits for her to nod, before speaking up again.

“Well, what about Ben?”

A single eyebrow raises on her forehead. “What about him?”

“He’s dead!” Klaus mimics slicing his throat with his hand.

“I’m aware.”

“Yeah? If I’m not supposed to be here—” He gestures to the forest, the afterlife, he thinks a tad hysterical. “—then he’s not supposed to be here either, right? None of us are.”

After all, they all came out of the blue, born in one day. That’s what Pogo told them.

“We’re your miracles to the world, aren’t we?”

Because why else would Dad insist on training them for the end of the world? Why else give them these powers? Sure, he’s not useful for much aside from information gathering every once in a blue moon, but the others surely had a more important role in the grand scheme of things. They couldn’t stay dead if they were supposed to save the world.

Her cool eyes rake over his form, lips curling downwards at the edges and he knows that look so well, has seen it every time Dad would look at him to know what she’s about to say next isn’t going to be pretty.

“You’re my mistakes.” His heart sinks, dropping to the bottom of his stomach like a stone thrown into the river. “You in particular.”

His skin starts to burn, chest twisting viciously in a tug war between disappointment and pain. It’s no secret of his place in the house, but he never thought his reputation would extent to the household of God.

“What does this mean for Ben?”

“He can stay dead for all I care.” She shrugs, unbothered at the way Klaus’ eyes flash in barely restrained fury. “His role in my plans doesn’t depend on whenever he’s alive or not. You can thank yourself for that.”

What does that mean, he wants to ask, too afraid of the answer to voice the question. Instead he takes a step forward, away from the tree.

“I’m not going to leave without him.”

He owes Ben. This…this isn’t what he’s thought the afterlife to be. Ben would hate it. This world as bland as oatmeal, grey and soggy and wet.

“He’s not here yet.”

She purses her lips, tilting her head like a cat who caught the mouse.

“What makes you think you have a choice?”

“Isn’t that all that’s about? Free will?” He challenges, raising his fists. Closing his eyes, he concentrates, reaching out into the sea to pull Ben through the void.

“You’re a brat.”

He half expects lightning to strike him down, though that would be silly. He’s dead already. That wouldn’t hurt. If she’s insisting on kicking him out—why she hasn’t yet, he doesn’t know—he’s got no time to waste.

_Come on, Ben! Just reach a little deeper, follow my voice—_

“Klaus?”

Eyes snapping open, he grins. “Ben!”

He throws his arms around his brother, who looks around the woods with a glazed look in his eyes. Arms come up to wrap around his back and they’re clinging to each other like glue. He hears Ben mumble into his shoulder, nails digging into his back and offers a watery laugh.

“Told you, I’d do it.”

Ben tightens his hold, grip turning bruising for a moment before it softens back into yearning to hold on just a bit longer. As if he’ll disappear when he lets go.

Klaus pulls away first, for the first time ever, to slide one hand down Ben’s arm to his hand, interlocking their fingers before he turns back to the girl, watching them with keen eyes.

“We’re a packaged deal,” he says stubbornly, boldly, holding his chin tall. “Six and Four. We make a solid ten. Either we’ll both go or I’ll stay here. I don’t care if you kick me out a thousand times. I’ll just keep on coming back whenever you want me to or not. If it doesn’t matter if he stays here, why not let him go with me?”

Ben shifts on his feet, shrinking away from the sight of the girl instinctively. “Klaus? What’s going on? Who is she?”

Giving his brother a reassuring squeeze, he stays silent, staring down God.

Actual God. Christ. He used to be agnostic. Maybe Five had been right. He does have a death wish. Though, does it count if he’s kicked the bucket?

The wind picks up. His palm holding onto Ben’s grows sweaty.

After what feels like forever, awaiting judgment under her burning stare, she hums. A low sound in the back of her throat that sounds like thunder to his ears.

“There are consequences to such a choice, you realize? The bridge between death and life shall not be taken too lightly, regardless of your position.” 

She steps forward, the fog thickening around them. The stars above their heads seem to melt like ink spewing across white paper, the sky begins to darken.

“You’ll have to live with these consequences. I don’t want you here before its time, neither does the other side. You will not be given sanctuary before the end of times, Klaus Hargreeves, make sure to ensure you made the right choice today.”

Her lips begin to twitch up into the faintest clue of a smile, showing too much teeth.

“Death is about to become quite interesting in your life. Do remember, it’s all about the balance of your choices. Pick and choose wisely.”

With a roar of thunder and a flash of lightning, the colors began to blend together, growing darker around the edges as the ground crumbles away underneath their feet. Klaus clings to Ben’s hand, lights going out in a roaring flash, blinding them.

The last thing he sees are glittering eyes, ancient on a face so young, darker than the night sky he found so mesmerizing and he’s staring at the ocean, watching as it swallows him whole to spit him back out.

With a choking gasp, Klaus jerks awake underneath the blue sky of a summer day.

* * *

“Klaus?” a voice above him chokes out, “Oh my god—Dad! Someone, get Dad!”

Klaus groans, torn between retching at the dryness of his throat and the sheer nausea constricting around his neck. His body aches like one big bruise, burning at the nerves while he shivers violently, trying to crowd closer to the warmth holding him.

He’s so cold. Like a popsicle. As if his skin is made of ice and he’s melting.

The blue above him blinks, glistering.

“You’re okay.” Luther. It’s Luther holding him, rocking back and forth slightly, whose tears drip down onto his face. Who else would ask for Dad? “You’re okay, Four, you’re going to be okay.” A hand shakily brushes his hair away from his face, lingering.

Klaus jerks at the scathing heat of the palm. “Cold,” he stutters out, trying to place the uproar of noise going on around him. There’s the sound of sobbing, ugly and loud ringing in his ears and feet crunching on snow.

His vision is too blurry for him to see straight. There’s another person crowding over him—two. Maybe three. He’s seeing double as the world continues to spin around him.

Luther chokes around a sob, rubbing at his arms. “Diego—Two, hold him for me.”

“K-K-Klaus,” his brother tires to say, stumbling around the word like Mom hadn’t kept in mind to name them short and simple for Diego to spell out as Luther lifts him up, carefully prying his hands away from his shirt that Klaus had latched onto the moment he woke up and places him in Diego’s arms. “T-Tha-Thank G-God.”

He sees Luther struggling to take off his cardigan, the pale-yellow contrasting harshly against the bright blood staining the fabric and he’s wrapped up in it the moment it comes off his brother’s shoulders.

It’s warmer, but wet and does nearly nothing against the cold that seems to stem from his insides, blood sluggish like slush.

“Better?” he asks, puffs of warm air forming in front of his lips. To make him happy, Klaus weakly nods his head.

“What did you do?”

Allison shoves Luther aside, coming up in his view and her hands cradle his cheeks, brushing away the tears that have long frozen onto his skin.

“Klaus, what have you _done_?” She asks scandalized, sniffling. Her hands are shaking—she must be cold out here in only her pajamas— and she doesn’t dare tear her eyes away from him, eyes wide enough he can see the whites.

There’s blood staining her hands. On Diego’s pajama front. On the snow as he cranes his head away to squint over Luther’s shoulders, because they’re missing someone.

“Ben?”

It’s almost pretty, the way a single drop of color is, how vibrant the red bleeds into the whiteness around them, if it wasn’t so horrifying to see how much blood a human body held.

The arms around him tighten painfully, jostling him as he starts to jerk, panting and coughing. Allison makes a wounded noise, high-pitched and pained while Luther swears lowly under his breath. Diego presses a kiss against the crown of his head, having given up on forming a sentence he knows Klaus won’t listen to. He’d feel bad for ignoring him, if he could feel anything apart from mind-numbing fear.

_Where was Ben?_

“Shh, it’s okay.” Allison tries to steer his face away from the sight of Ben’s gravestone, back to her, rubbing warmth back into his skin. “It’s okay, Klaus, c’mon, look at me. Look at me, please.”

“No, no, no.” He twists around, hands swatting her own away, forcing himself to sit up. “Ben!?”

His throat burns with bile.

Diego’s arms come up around his waist, holding him back as he tries to scramble forward, head snapping from side to side to look for a sign of black. Ben couldn’t be gone. He’d held onto his hand. He didn’t let go.

_Where. Was. Ben?_

He shouldn’t be here. Not without Ben. Why was he here, breathing?

“Ben’s gone, Klaus,” Luther says, walking the thin line between mean and gentle. A sensitive asshole. He swallows thickly, gripping onto his shoulders, trying to meet his eyes. “Did you…did you see him?”

Who cares about that? The problem is he’s not seeing Ben now!

Shrugging the hands off, Klaus closes his eyes and balls his own into fists. He doesn’t see his palms flare up in a soft blue light, like the bones are shining through and pulls and pushes with what little strength he has left.

Dry heaving as the light fades from his hands, he spits out a mouthful of watery like bile. Diego’s jerks him backwards when he titles forward, keeping him from faceplanting into his sad pile of vomit. Lifting his head, Klaus glances around.

Nothing.

No Ben.

He goes lax in Diego’s grip, a sob tearing itself out of his chest. He doesn’t hear the reassurances from his sister and brothers, trying to get him to calm down with careful, affectionate pats and soothing words. They’re static noise to his ears as he cries like he’s stuck with the ghosts again, alone in the dark. Where he would go to again, now that Dad knew what he’d done. The place that might as well be his coffin—and wasn’t it a small mercy to wake up in the cold, rather than in a coffin?

Wait.

The coffin!

Klaus lunges forward, Diego’s arm pulling him back like a seatbelt. Snarling through his tears, a hysterical shout of “Let go!”, he twists, elbow jamming backwards, knocking Diego back, who yelps. Luther and Allison flinch away like he’s a dog foaming at the mouth with rabies, letting him half stumble, half crawl his way towards where they buried Ben— _buried alive, oh god, what if he wakes up? Stuffed into a box under piles of never-ending dirt —_ and he starts digging.

Shoving dirt aside, throwing it, burying his hands deeper into the wet earth, into stones scrapping at his hands and twigs, scooping it all away in a frenzy.

_Ben, Ben, Ben._ His heart beats. _Ben!_

„Stop,” someone shouts, Luther? Allison? Diego? “Stop, Klaus! What are you doing!?“

He doesn’t hear them over his pulse roaring in his ears, fast and quick. He doesn’t hear the front door slamming open, the heavy pond of footsteps approaching until he’s tugged backwards by the back of his collar in one swift movement.

His collar ends up choking him. His hands flailing useless, swinging as large hands grip him by his upper arms and he comes face to face with Dad.

Dad, who’s cold eyes rake over his shivering, pathetic form, darting from the dirt underneath his nails to the blood dried shirt up to his blotted, swollen-red face with no sympathy to spare. The look in his eyes makes Klaus want to take a step away, towards where Vanya is getting shushed by Mom and Pogo from the sounds of their voices filtering through the deadly silence of the backyard, but he finds himself paralyzed to the spot, unable to move a single muscle when hands slide down to warp around his wrist, hold hard enough to bruise.

A beat passes where the hands tighten. Klaus’ tongue isn’t capable of producing any noise. Not even a wince when he can feel his bones bend. Their eye-contact never breaking.

Then, the corners of Dad’s lips twitch upwards into the barest, most terrifying smile Klaus has ever seen on a person, the glint in his eyes gleaming like embers.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Number Four,” Dad says, releasing his wrists. He steps back, waves a hand over to Mom when Klaus legs give out and send him to the floor.

“It appears Number Seven wasn’t lying regarding your state. Grace will perform the necessary checks to ensure your resurrection won’t cause any further complications to your health. Children, go and clean up accordingly, Number Four will receive the treatment he needs to make a full recovery from your Mother.”

Mom’s heels clack as she hurries over to catch him when he tilts sideways, breaths growing ragged under the stress. She’s smiling down at him, not a hair out of place and her ruby-red smile nothing less than perfect while she fusses over him.

Klaus struggles to breath, dark spots appearing in his sight.

_Welcome back to the land of the living, Number Four._

Sweat drenches him, building at his forehead to slip down his neck. His heart begins to twist in his chest, pangs of tingling spreading like a disease along his arms and legs up to his head where he begins to feel light-headed and faint.

Mom’s lips move, smile dimming. He doesn’t feel her hands on him, doesn’t feel her pick him up as he hangs limply in her arms, clinging to consciousness by a thin thread.

Dad doesn’t move away when Mom turns away to head back to the house. He moves to _follow_.

_No, no, no._

_No!_

_Go away, go away, go away._

Terror keeps him chained as his head rolls to the side, eyes stuck on Dad’s, wide-open and blank as Mom does her best not to jostle him too much. What’s going to happen to him now? Where are they going? Why aren’t the others following them? The corners of his vision darken into a tunnel and then—

Behind Dad, tentacles bursts forth out of the ground, breaking through the wood and dirt.

_Ben_.

—Klaus’ eyes fall close, breath evening out as his mind shuts down.

**Author's Note:**

> Klaus: *dies*  
> The Little Girl (aka God): *uno reverse card*
> 
> This is how Klaus learned that they do not negotiate with terrorist. 
> 
> Comments with your opinions are always welcomed! This is quite a bit darker and heavier than what I usually write, so feel free to offer me feedback or just your general opinions of season two if you like! <3


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